


The Nine Circles

by Donna_Immaculata



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ensemble Cast, Fandom, Fanfiction, M/M, Metafiction, Politics, Religious Discussion, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2018-11-23 08:09:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11398548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donna_Immaculata/pseuds/Donna_Immaculata
Summary: Constable Visit's pamphlets spread some very good news indeed. Provided Mr Vimes never reads them.





	1. Baptism of Fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rachelindeed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachelindeed/gifts).



> Inspired by something WhenasInSilks said in a comment. The idea took hold, germinated and gave birth to this.

IN THE BEGINNING WAS THE BULL, AND THE BULL WAS WITH GOD, AND THE BULL WAS GOD[1].

Corporal Nobby Nobbs stared idly at the words printed in large letters on the pamphlets piled haphazardly on his desk. He was not, on the whole, a religious ma… monke… gobl… individual, but he felt in his heart of hearts that the Omnian Church had made a grave mistake when it switched from cattle to reptile. A man wielding a staff crowned with the horns of a bull would command much greater respect among the populace than one with a turtle pendant around his neck. Fitted out with the full regalia of Old Omnianism, Washpot wouldn’t be reduced to shoving his pamphlets under doors and leaving them lying around the watch house for the unwitting or terminally bored to pick up by accident, oh no! He’d walk talk and proud, stomping disbelievers into the ground with Hooves of Righteousness and impaling them on Horns of Divine Retribution.

Indulging in blood-red fantasies of proselytisation on behalf of his comrade-in-arms, Nobby sighed and pushed his finger deeper into his nostril, twisting it absentmindedly as his glazed gaze skidded over the words of the prophets and the appeals to _repent, ye sinners_! _“…a great wailing and crying and the gnashing of teeth and rending of garments and pulling of hair and pinching of earlobes and kicking of ankles… And the Prophet Tobrun spake thusly upon the multitude: Go forth, ye children of Om, and multiply. And subtract and divide and exponentiate and calculate and convolute… For it is said that the dove of umbrage defies the rattlesnake of affability, and if your neighbour’s donkey’s back snaps under the load of his riches, the sultan’s daughters will dance with a crock of silver that never boils…”_

Nobby’s elbow slipped off the edge of the desk and his chin made painful contact with the wood. It was a stroke of luck; Captain Carrot would have something to say if he nodded off on desk duty again. Rubbing his chin and yawning, Nobby picked up the pamphlets that had dropped to the floor and a word caught his eye. And then another one. Carefully, like a man dissecting one of CMOT Dibbler’s pies, he turned the leaf of the thin booklet and stared at its content, his mouth frozen in what might have been a wide yawn or might have been the O of disbelieving horror.

Soft footsteps jolted him back to his senses. Nobby stuffed the guilty pamphlet back into his pocket, upsetting the papers and scattering them all around the desk and floor. Sergeant Angua loomed before him, her eyes gleaming, her lips parted in a wolfish grimace. That golden gaze of hers bored deeply into his withered soul, reading the thoughts that he desperately tried to conceal under the thin mantle of, for lack of a better word, innocence.

The sergeant smiled. “Hello Nobby,” she said, and it struck him how honeyed her voice was. “Is anything wrong?” The golden gaze swept over the papers strewn at her feet. “Let me help you pick these up.”

“No!” Nobby jumped in his chair, but didn’t dare get up. Not… yet. Not while she was _looking_ at him like this. “No, miss. Please, miss. I’ll do it. Just-” He grimaced[2], bending double as if attacked by a sudden bout of gastritis. “Leave them…”

But Angua was already squatting down. She picked up a handful of pamphlets and looked up at Nobby. Then, the smile was back, all sharp edges and glinting teeth. “Corporal Nobbs,” she said slowly, and he recoiled. “You will accompany me to the palace. Now.”

The last word was a growl. Nobby’s insides melted and he sat in a sad puddle, watching his whole life pass in front of his terrified eyes.

***

The Patrician of Ankh-Morpork did not believe in gods. As far as he was concerned, they did a good job keeping the impressionable as well as potentially troublesome zealots busy, and he left them alone as long as they didn’t interfere with his running of the city. If a god or goddess took it into his or her head to manifest in Ankh-Morpork with the aim of intimidating unbelievers or smiting sinners, he had a word with the High Priest of Offler, whose rubber-aproned canons and primates wielded the most persuasive arguments[3].

But he did believe in people. And it was for that reason that he was currently engrossed in reading the words of an Omnian priest who enumerated the methods of reforming vampires and the many ways so-called ‘black ribboners’ could become valuable members of society. Lord Vetinari sighed. From what he’d read so far, his own experience with vampires was radically different from that of the Quite Reverend Mightily-Praiseworthy-Are-Ye-Who-Exalteth-Om Oats. He put the priest’s papers aside and glanced at the letter that he’d read twice this morning and was planning to read once again later tonight. So their paths had crossed again, as he’d always known they would. After his appointment to Patrician, he’d had better things to do than keeping in touch with Lady Margolotta, who for centuries had been quite content with the rural pursuits of an Überwald vampiress, hunting peasants and toying with travellers in underwired nightshirts. It wasn’t until after the affair with the Scone of Stone seven months ago that he had received a missive informing him that, having given it due consideration, she’d decided that he’d been right and that control did come in many different guises. In a word: she had given up the b-vord and taken up politics instead. There! Are you happy now, Havelock? He could almost hear the purr in the back of her throat, and a very confused thrill of pleasure trickled down his spine, quite disoriented and wondering what it was doing in such an unfamiliar environment. Überwald was flashing its teeth in the direction of Ankh-Morpork, and it was on him to determine if it was to be in a snarl or a smile.

There was a knock at the door. “Come!” Vetinari picked up Lady Margolotta’s letter and slipped it into a pocked of his robe as the door opened and three people were ushered in by Drumknott: a young woman with dark hair and an expression of barely contained rage, flanked by Sergeant Angua and Corporal Nobbs. A human, escorted by a werewolf and a… Nobbs. The Watch was doing a good job at representing the multispecies nature of the city, and Vetinari was looking forward to Commander Vimes’ face when he told the man that a vampire would be joining the ranks some time soon.

“Miss Dearheart,” Vetinari addressed the young woman, after greeting and dismissing the guards with a wave of his hand. “I was sorry to hear that you have been forced to return to Ankh-Morpork after the collapse of the Cabbage Growers’ Co-operative in Sto Lat. That must have been quite an, ah, hard blow for a woman like yourself.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “A woman like myself?” _Tap-tap-tap_ , the war drum of her shoe beat out an aggressive rhythm on the carpet. “And what do you mean by that, your lordship?”

“Only that you can hardly be content living off your father’s money,” Vetinari said, watching the anger churn behind her eyes. “Even though your family is doing rather well, now that the clacks business has taken off.”

“And what do you propose?” Her posture was that of a cat with flattened ears. “Do you suggest I should join the Seamstresses’ Guild to make my own way in the world?”

“Good heavens, no! Unless you wish to, of course. Mrs Palm is a very reasonable employer, and the Guild provides an excellent healthcare scheme and flexible working hours. I believe, however, that your talents would be much better employed elsewhere.” He pushed a folder towards her. “I understand that you are concerned about the intelligent use of technology – thanks to your progressive upbringing in an engineer’s household, no doubt. Can I possibly persuade you to promote the interests of individuals who combine intelligence and technology in one comprehensive package?”

Her mouth twisted and the war beat tapped out by her foot was picked up by her fingers on the polished desk. She opened the folder and read, frowning. She looked up. “ _Golems_?”

“Highly intelligent, highly moral creatures that require a helping hand to throw off the shackles humanity had imposed on them. The manager of the Golem Trust would have free reign on how to run day-to-day operations and report directly to me.”

“I know nothing about golems!” She shoved the folder back across the desk, dislodging the pile of pamphlets. One fluttered down and she caught it instinctively.

“I knew nothing about ruling a city before I was put in office. And I believe I have done rather well, on the whole. You’ll pick it up as you go along.” He flashed her a quick smile. “What do you say, Miss Dearheart?”

“What?” She was staring at the piece of paper in her hand as if it was about to explode.

“Are you accepting the position?” He handed her a thin booklet with the words: **Ad Maiorem Om Gloriam** printed in large black letters across the top of the first page. She took it automatically. “I am informed that, as a species, golems enjoy a religious debate,” Vetinari continued. “And while I am not personally interested in the practical aspects of religious worship, I believe that familiarising oneself with the theory is crucial if one wishes to know what is going on in the… heads of one’s charges. I strongly recommend you read some of these, Miss Dearheart. You might find them useful.” He smiled again. “I certainly did.”

***

Sergeant Angua and Corporal Nobbs were proceeding along Broad Way and, in his case, to squirm inside. He was alternately looking down at his boots and casting sidelong glances at the very attractive, very dangerous young woman who walked by his side. There’d been something in the sergeant’s eyes and smile before that made him think… Nobby shuddered. He wasn’t generally a man prone to an attack of the willies, but willies were at the root of the problem here. He hung his head, swallowed hard, and shuddered again.

“You read it, didn’t you?” Angua said somewhere above his head.

Nobby’s insides filled with lead. “What, miss?” he squeaked in the small voice of an imp.

“Don’t lie to me, Nobby.”

“No, miss. ‘M not lying, miss.”

“You must understand that it is vital that it doesn’t get out.”

Something inside Nobby loosened and he released the tension in an anguished groan. “Mr Vimes will go SPARE!”

“Yes. This is exactly what would happen _if it ever got out_. And therefore,” Angua stopped and looked straight at him. Well, down at him. “It must remain a secret. He never reads Visit’s pamphlets so if he ever finds out,” her voice dropped to a growl, “I’ll know who told him.”

“Yes miss. I won’t tell nuthin’, miss,” Nobby was babbling. “But, miss,” he swallowed. “How did _you_ know?”

Angua smiled.

Nobby’s eyes widened in terror and admiration. “You knew about it? Did you,” he asked in the tone of voice of a child finding out that the Hogfather was your dad. “Did you write that?”

“No.” Angua said with a faint smile. “I’m not much of a writer. But there are people who are very good at it, and it’s crucial to protect them. For the sake of the Watch.”

“Vimesy’ll go spare,” Nobby groaned again. “And the Patrician… it's gonna be the scorpion pit for everyone!”

“Yes, exactly. This is why – and, Nobby, I can’t stress it enough – it must never ever get out.”

“It won’t, miss. I promise, miss.” Nobby spat in his hand and held it out to Angua. “What? This is how you seal a deal.”

“We’re not sealing a deal. You’re making me a promise, which, I have to reiterate, is for your own good.”

“I know, I know.” Nobby’s spirits were rising again, now that nothing else was. It was nice to know that he wasn’t the only one who was in possession of a deep dark secret. Didn’t they say that a sorrow shared was a sorrow halved? And now that the initial shock was over, he found his curiosity aroused[4]. He fingered the crumpled and rather damp piece of paper in his pocked and grinned. “Are there more?”

***

**_Thaumic Fusion_ **

_by Killer_

_The Patrician limped into the Oval Office, leaning heavily on his cane. Behind him, Commander Vimes stepped into the room, closed the door and turned the key in the lock. “That was very reckless, your lordship,” Vimes grumbled. “You must be more careful or people will notice!”_

_“My knee twisted by 180 degrees, Vimes. I believe I did a good job concealing this fact.” Vetinari dropped into his chair and hitched up his robe. He undid the row of buttons along the inseam of his trouser leg and looked at the Commander. “Well? What are you waiting for?”_

_Vimes sank to his knees before the Patrician. He ran practised hands up the length of his shin and gripped his knee tightly. “Ready?” he asked._

_Vetinari nodded. He clenched his hands around the armrests and braced himself. “Do it.”_

_Gritting his jaw with effort, Vimes began turning the knee back into position. The joint creaked. “It won’t work,” he said. “It needs lubricating. Do you have any oil here?”_

_The Patrician reached into a drawer and handed the bottle to Vimes. The Commander poured a few drops over the joint and tried again. This time, the knee swivelled more smoothly, and the cogs clacked into place. He pulled out a Lancre army knife from his pocked and fastened the screws. “What about your groin?”_

_Vetinari raised his eyebrows. “What about my groin, Vimes?”_

_Vimes rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean. Do you need any help with it?”_

_“By all means, Commander.” Vetinari stood up, putting his weight on his repaired leg, gingerly at first and then increasingly confident. He unfastened his belt and pushed down his trousers. “Do what you think is necessary.”_

_Vimes, on finding himself face to crotch with the Patrician, swallowed. The thin white cotton did nothing to conceal the ridge between thigh and hip where metal had been thaumaturgically fused to flesh, nor the hard cock that strained against the material. “What I think is necessary?” Vimes said. “Or what you think is necessary for me to do?”_

_Vetinari smirked. “Isn’t this one and the same thing?”_

_“You’ve programmed me, sir.” Vimes was saying while his hands busied themselves unlacing, pulling down, gripping, and squeezing. “You made me what I am. Does it turn you on to know that I’ll do whatever you want me to do?” He leaned in and licked Vetinari’s cock. “I’m your clockwork man, even though it’s you who’s part clockwork.”_

_He pulled back and slid his hand down Vetinari’s metal leg. “I shouldn’t have brought you to the wizards to sort you out when you got shot. I should’ve found a doctor.”_

_“A doctor would have removed the leg without replacing it.”_

_“Then people would know what you are.”_

_“A cripple?” Vetinari smirked again and tugged at Vimes’ hair, forcing his head back. Vimes looked up at him. “Is that how you think about me?”_

_Vimes didn’t answer. Instead, he took Vetinari’s cock in his mouth and sucked. The Patrician watched his own cock disappear in the Commander’s mouth for a while. He then pulled Vimes’ head back by the hair. “Up!”_

_Vimes stood up._

_“Turn around.”_

_Vimes did._

_“Bend over.”_

_Vimes spread himself over the desk, legs splayed, trousers around his ankles. His fingers were still slippery with the oil he’d used on the Patrician’s knee joint, and Vetinari guided his hand to his arse. “Open up.”_

_The Patrician added more oil, dribbling it over Vimes’ fingers as the Commander worked himself open for his cock. Vetinari was watching the obscene display, rubbing his own cock with circling motions of an oil-slick hand. Eventually, he slid his cock against Vimes’ hot flesh and thrust in. Vimes cried out. It was not a cry of pain. The Patrician knew all about those. It was a cry of submission and pleasure. The thick cock in his arse and Vetinari’s weight against his back pinned Vimes to the desk. He grunted and moaned with every back and forth of Vetinari’s hips. “The wonders of biothaumaturgic design, Vimes!” Vetinari said in a husky voice. “This would not have been possible had you not brought me to the wizards to, as you put it, sort out.” He withdrew and slammed back in. Vimes groaned._

_“Your cock’s not artificial.”_

_“No. My cock is flesh and blood.” Vetinari clenched his hands around Vimes’ hips. “But without this leg I couldn’t fuck you as hard as I’m doing now.” He demonstrated how hard he could go with a few rapid thrusts that knocked the wind out of the Commander of the Watch. Vimes was gripping the edge of the desk and gasping. A gooey thread of semen trailed down the front of the desk and dribbled to the floor. Vimes had come almost instantly. He always did when the Patrician fucked him like this: with long strokes and hands that held him in a steel vice. At last, Vetinari cried out and his hips snapped forward. He shot his load inside Vimes, and when he pulled out it dripped out Vimes’ arse and ran down the back of his legs._

_When Vimes turned around, Vetinari was sitting in his chair, wiping himself down with a handkerchief. Vimes pulled up his pants. “You take great care of that leg of yours,” he said, pulling out a packet of cigarettes._

_“I wouldn’t want it to rust.”_

_Vimes lit a cigarette and held out the packet to Vetinari, who shook his head. “Go on, have a post-coital smoke,” Vimes said. “That’s etiquette, ain’t it?”_

_Vetinari shrugged and accepted one. They smoked in silence. Vimes propped up his foot on the chair, between Vetinari’s legs. He nudged the artificial limb with the tip of his boot. “Is this responsible use of technomancy, you think?”_

_The Patrician of Ankh-Morpork leaned back in his chair. “I don’t think anybody will complain. Do you?”_

***

Sergeant Colon’s O of disbelieving horror mirrored that of his colleague a few hours previously. He looked up from the pamphlet until his eyes met those of Nobby Nobbs. It was, for once, a soothing sight.

“What did I just read?”

Nobby was grinning like a gargoyle with a broken spout. “And there’s more!”

“Oh no!” Colon wailed. “If Mr Vimes finds out-”

“He’ll go SPARE!” Nobby said, with the relish of a respectable widow relating the story of an ‘orrible murder to her neighbours. Nobby’d had several hours to process the discovery and come to terms with it, until he was filled with glee rather than with dread.

“And the…” Colon looked around furtively and lowered his voice to a graveyard whisper, “Patrician-”

“Will kill us ‘orribly,” Nobby said.

“We must destroy the evidence!” Colon gathered up a fistful of pamphlets and held them aloft, as far away from his body as possible. “Is Washpot in on it? I never trusted those Omnian preachers, nobody can love one god as much as they do. ‘S not natural.”

“Washpot doesn’t know anything. Sergeant Angua told me the pamphlets are used because they’re safe. Only those who are in the know read them.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Nobody else ever does, not even Visit. He knows them by heart. Or so he thinks, hurr-hurr-hurr.”

“Nobby?”

“Yes, sarge?”

“Why did you just say ‘hurr-hurr-hurr’?”

"That was a derisive laugh, sarge.”

“I thought you had something stuck in your throat.”

“No, sarge.”

“I feel very faint, Nobby.”

“There, there, sarge.” Nobby reached out a grubby paw and patted Colon’s hand. “It’ll pass. I felt like this too at first, but now I-” He broke off.

“Yes?” Colon had pulled back his hand and wiped it absentmindedly. “How do you feel now?”

“It’s like,” Nobby struggled through an unfamiliar maze of emotions that had risen from the dark bog of his soul. “It’s interesting to read what nobs get up to, in private” he explained at last.

“Nobby!” Colon was scandalised. “This is not what Mr Vimes gets up to in private! Not with the Pa… with Lord Ve… with his lordsh…” He couldn’t even bring himself to say the words. “And I hope I don’t have to explain to you that this… this smut is about two _men_. His lordship’d never stand for this kind of thing!”

Even as he spoke the words, Colon saw his own scepticism reflected in the corporal’s eyes. What Lord Vetinari stood for, or if he ever stood at all or preferred to sit it out, was subject to much speculation, but nobody seemed to be able to verify any of the theories that were flying about.

And then Nobby said it: “What if he does?”

“It’s disgusting, that’s what it is.” Colon stared at the pamphlets, but they refused to burst into flames under the force of his glare. “There’s more, you say?”

Nobby beamed like a dump of thaumic waste. “I was hoping you’d ask!”

 

* * *

 

[1] This line had caused much controversy and, indeed, one of the many schisms in the history of the Omnian Church. Like all old Omnian writings, it had found its way from the local dialect of Gur-Arash into modern Omnian via Ancient Ephebian and Latatian. Somewhere along the winding paths of translations, back-translations and deciphering-of-century-old-faded-scribbles-of-semiliterate-shepherds-on-oil-and-blood-stained-parchment-by-other-semiliterate-menial-workers, the perfectly respectable word “taurus” was translated as “bullock”, which, in turn, was corrupted to “bollocks” in some editions. There was an outcry among the venerable fathers of the Church, not to mention many cries among the victims of the Quisition; however, a small yet determined faction maintained that “in the beginning was bollocks” made as much sense as anything, all things considered. The replacement of the Bull by the Turtle as avatar of the Great God Om resulted in a great sigh of relief among the multitude. At least until somebody pointed out that the Latatian for “turtle” was “testudo”, from the root word “testa”, which was only one suffix away from “testis”, but he was asked to get out in the fresh air more.

[2] Although it was impossible to tell.

[3] And the spikiest and holiest clubs.

[4] As it were.


	2. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: bad puns, purple prose, clichés.

**The Patrician can often be buggered like hell**

by Scarlett Witch

_Sodomy can be such a fun thing to do_

_And I’ve got a well-kept secret for you:_

_Don’t worry he’s deadly and a bit of a swell,_

_The Patrician can still be buggered like hell._

_The knives in his pocket can cut up a man_

_They'll give you a pain in the worst place they can_

_But not if you know him tremendously well:_

_The Patrician can often be buggered like hell._

_Mounting his lordship will work out just fine_

_Just visit the Place Where The Sun Does Not Shine_

_Rural pursuits are widespread in the fell_

_The Patrician can there be buggered like hell._

_But keep out of Bad Ass, it’s a pain in the neck_

_His lordship will curse you gosh dang it to heck_

_It ain’t got purveyors of oil or slick gel_

_The Patrician refuses to be buggered like hell._

_Engage in a duel, if you don’t fear the prick_

_Of a blade that pokes out of his walking stick_

_Aroused by the death dance, in the voice of a knell_

_His lordship demands to be buggered like hell._

_He might feed you poison if you dare to displease_

_While you’re in your death throes, he’ll sink to his knees_

_Gives orders in foreign, allons-y, schnell-schnell_

_The Patrician, one last time, is buggered like hell._

_But if you are clever, submit to his will_

_And his lordship’s pleasure will give you a thrill_

_Just think, if you will, of the many times_

_His lordship has gladly been buggered by Vimes._

***

Sergeant Colon caught himself humming the jolly little ditty under his breath. “Bugger!” he cursed and instantly backpedalled: “Gosh damn it to heck!” Better not invoke buggery, you never knew if Mr Vimes was within earshot. Better not give anyone _ideas_.

Not that it was necessary to give anyone any ideas. There was certainly no shortage of ideas around here, and they were running rampant in the watch houses. Fred Colon, whose own marriage had survived the tempests of time thanks to a solid bulwark of kitchen-table correspondence, had never explored the possibilities of rather more adventurous avenues of pleasure. Buggery, like bestiality, was the province of countryside and of foreign parts[1].

And now it turned out that it was right here, in Ankh-Morpork. And that wasn’t even the worst of it.

“ _Women_?” Colon boggled. He was a master boggler, Angua had to give him that. “ _Women_ write this?”

Angua sighed. “Yes, Fred. And why shouldn’t they?” She sounded a touch defensive, and he fidgeted.

“But it’s… filthy.”

“So? Are men the only ones permitted to be filthy? And if so – who should they be filthy with? Other men?” She’d begun to grin. “Is this what you’re saying, Fred?”

Colon’s round forehead wrinkled in the effort of thought. Something about the argument didn’t make sense, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

“They could always be filthy on their own, I suppose…” Angua said and, to Colon’s horror, winked.

Things had been easier back in the day, before Angua had joined the watch as the first woman officer. It was all lads together then, boys would be boys, and everyone knew that locker room talk was perfectly nat’ral, as was roistering with your mates in a good-natured, healthy way. And then Angua had added some jokes of her own, with hand gestures. Despite his studies of ‘The Amorous Adventures of Molly Clapper’[2] early in his marriage, Colon hadn’t understood all of them, not until now. It turned out that reading was indeed very educational.

“Ai happen to think that this kind of talk his not happropriate for a young unmarried woman like yourself!” Colon pulled himself up and puffed out his chest in a very good imitation of a pompous pigeon. “As the sergeant with seniority around here Ai feel called hupon to restore the moral order in the ranks.”

“Jokes about large breasts and speculations about what dwarfs wear underneath their chainmail?” Angua said. “I seem to remember this kind of talk didn’t offend anyone’s sensibilities.” She snatched the pamphlet, which was looking rather worse for wear, out of Colon’s hand. “Don’t like it, don’t read it.”

He watched it disappear in her pocket with the eyes of a dog watching the cat eat from his bowl in the knowledge that a confrontation would result in claws being wielded in the direction of his nose. It wasn’t that he wanted to read it. Again. It was just that he’d feel better if he knew where it was at all times, so that it didn’t fall into the wrong hands.

Angua gave him a sly smile. “Another one is due tomorrow,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper and tapped the side of her nose in an exaggerated gesture. “Look out for a pamphlet on dietary laws of the Arash tribe. Code word: SHRIMP.”

***

“Come to the window and tell me what you see.” The Patrician beckoned at the Commander of the City Watch, who stood ramrod straight in front of the desk, fixing his gaze at a point to the left of Vetinari’s ear.

“Sir.” Vimes stepped over and watched the citizenry of Ankh-Morpork welcome travellers to the city as they stepped off the mail coach, but two dwarfs and a troll of the City Watch were at hand to apprehend them, pointing the visitors in the direction of the Thieves Guild instead[3]. “A post horse pissi- relieving himself in the gutter.”

Vetinari sighed. “Yes, Vimes. But I would hardly ask you to come to the window to discuss that particular sight, impressive though it may be. Please don’t be difficult, it’s been a… hard day. Try again.”

Vimes rolled his eyes, but only inwardly. A crack had appeared in the armour when Vetinari admitted, albeit circuitously, to being tired, and Vimes didn’t intend to pry open the gap to release the irritation trapped within.

“It’s that damn iconographer,” he growled instead, focusing the ire of his gaze on the skinny, black-clad figure behind the wooden box, which sadly completely failed to go up in flames. “How was he here so quickly? How did he know this would happen?” The troll officer held one of the hapless pickpockets upside down by his legs, shaking him gently to relieve him of his loot. The salamanders flashed, causing Otto Chriek to flail in paroxysms of agony. “And why the hell is he doing it if he knows that it’ll hurt him?”

Vetinari glanced at him from the side. “ _You_ wonder why he accepts pain as the obolus due for following his passion, commander?” he said mildly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. I was merely musing aloud.” Vetinari tapped at the windowpane with the tip of his finger. “Mr Otto Chriek. Last year a bloodsucking abomination swooping down on careless young ladies who got lost on their way to bed and ended up running through draughty corridors or dark woods. Today an upstanding citizen who makes a valuable contribution to Ankh-Morpork’s pioneering news and printing industry and even pays his taxes. Though I understand that in his former capacity he gave a considerable boost to the sector of lace and underwired nightshirt manufacture in Beyonk.”

“I’ve met him,” Vimes said.

“So I understand. I also believe that he was one of the people who helped you considerably with your inquiries, commander. I would of course never dream of telling you how to treat valuable witnesses and informers, but I find that, tempting as the stick is, showing them a little bit of your carrot every now and then never hurts.”

“That’s your professional opinion, is it, sir?”

“Indeed it is. I am, you understand, giving you free advice on how to deal with people.”

“You are?”

“Quite so. As long as I am ruler of this city, Ankh-Morpork will always welcome other species, and so will the Watch.”

“It will, will it?”

“Yes. It will. You employ a zombie, a golem and a werewolf, not to mention dwarfs and trolls. You will add a vampire to your ranks one day soon.”

“Over my dead body, sir.”

“I’m sure this could be arranged. Not _all_ members of the vampire community have taken the pledge.”

“Are you threatening me, _sir_?”

Vetinari regarded him coolly. “Not at all. I’m simply informing you, in the plainest terms, that you can’t fight progress forever. Vampires have come out of the coffin and I will not see them shoved forcibly back in. Vampires like Mr Chriek are making an effort, Vimes. It costs him a lot of self-restraint not to rip your throat out, and he doesn’t. I would have thought that you, of all people, would admire control.”

“I will not have a bloody vampire in the Watch.”

“Not bloody.” Vetinari tapped his forefinger against his lips. “Not bloody at all. That’s the entire point. But I can see that it upsets you and that you need time to come to terms with the prospect. I will give you time, albeit not infinitely. My patience has its limits, you know.”

“You don’t say, sir.”

“I would, however, advise you to read what the Quite Reverend Mightily-Praiseworthy-Are-Ye-Who-Exalteth-Om Oats has to say on the subject.” Vetinari picked up a handful of pamphlets from his desk and handed them to Vimes. “I must admit I haven’t read all of Pastor Oats’ treatises, but in the ones I did read he makes a compelling argument. He’s been operating in Überwald for a year, with great success. He is assisted by a witch and has a powerful ally in Lady Margolotta. I believe her ladyship did you one or two favours during your stay there.”

“She threw me to the werewolves. They tried to eat me.”

Vetinari waved a pale hand. “I’m sure her ladyship knew exactly how unlikely that was. She is an excellent judge of character.”

“Yeah? She said I hate her kind because of the… penetrative aspect,” Vimes spat.

“There you go, commander. QED.” Vetinari gave him a thin-lipped smile. “Don’t let me detain you any longer. I’ve got affairs of state to return to, while you have some reading to get through.”

Back in the watch house, Vimes tossed the cheaply bound pages on the desk. Vampires, hah! No vampire would be joining the Watch on his, er, watch. Politics! Überwald and Omnia, Omnia and Überwald. Reformed vampires and movable type. Nothing good would ever come out of it.

***

**The Fairy Circle**

by Perdita X Dream

_It was a dark and stormy night, the moon hid her silver face behind a thick canopy of clouds and the trees howled like the wolves in the woods (for it is in Überwald that our scene lies) as the wind rushed through them and pounded at the windows of the Castle. Its turrets were as tall as its dungeons were deep, illumed by the light of torches and concealing many secrets, none of them for the faint-hearted. The Count and his Family entertained a party of visitors tonight, who had travelled from a far-away land where only those dare to step who know the deepest, darkest secrets of magic and dreams. Inside the dungeon, two men were chained to the wall: one wore black robes that made him look like a vampyre. But a vampyre he was not. It was the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, a tall, thin man dressed in black with blue eyes that were as sharp as those of a witch. The other too was a gentleman from foreign parts: the Duke of Ankh was rather shorter, scruffier and angrier than the Patrician, as he had only a pair of gloomy trousers that sagged in the crotch to protect his modesty._

_Watching them from the door, the visitors giggled merrily, as was their habit. They were the most beautiful creatures, tall and slender, with long glossy tresses like the manes of the finest Klatchian steeds and faces and hands as pale as the moon. The vampyres who stood proud and pale like exquisite wax dolls looked at the Count, who nodded his command. He was the master of ceremonies on that stormy night that would change the lives of two men forever! With their evening gowns and opera cloaks billowing around them like the wings of giant bats, the vampyres moved towards the two chained men, their teeth flashing in the light of a profusion of mortuary tapers, disposed with taste and fancy. They struck with the speed of birds of prey and drank until their unholy thirst was quenched. When they finally released the prisoners, the gallant manners of the gentlemen, the exquisitely capricious air of the ladies, the light fantastic steps of their gait; the fair folk with the lute and the tabor, seated at the foot of an Iron Maiden, and the tenebral scenery of vaults around were circumstances that unitedly formed a characteristic and striking picture of the glamourous festivity._

_“They are subdued,” the Count said. “Their will is broken.”_

_“We brought the nectar,” one of the fair folk said to their hosts in a melodious voice. “Let them drink.”_

_The chains that bound the prisoners were long enough to move. They were under the vampyres’ thrall, and with the elven nectar coursing through their veins they felt irresistible lust rising deep within their breast and loins. Heedless of the circle that formed around them, they grasped each other like men drowning in the waves of the stormy ocean. Their mouths met and tongues battled for dominance, as their manhoods swelled in the confines in their pants, egged on by the twinges deep in their groins._

_The Patrician roughly pulled down the shorter man’s trousers and exposed the globes of his muscular arse. With a keening moan, the duke forced the taller man to his knees and thrust his hardened length into his mouth. The proud city ruler circled the head with his tongue before he sucked in the glistening column of flesh deep into his throat! He moaned with lust, tasting the musk of precome and something else, something uniquely Vimes. The other man was groaning loudly and held the first man’s hand in a firm, manly grip. “Oh gods, yes, yes, I’m coming!” shouted the commander of the watch, filling his superior’s mouth with juices that were sweeter even than the nectar of the elves._

_His lordship rose to his feet and tore off his clothes, freeing his weeping cock from his pants at last. The watchman’s mouth wandered down the Assassin’s athletic torso, rubbing his aroused nipples, first the one, then the other, until the dark-haired man was gasping for breath. He was mapping out the other man’s muscles and curves with his mouth, tending to the planes of his flat stomach and lightly-haired chest and peppering his skin with kisses. When the Blackboard Monitor ground his hardened loins against Vetinari, the latter’s breath heaved and a moan escaped him. He grabbed the watchman hard and pushed him down on his knees, crouching behind him to gain access to his most secret place. The nectar the fair folk had given them to drink was thick and viscous like syrup, and he poured it over his fingers to prepare his lover’s tight entrance. First he shoved in one elegant digit into Sir Samuel, massaging him, then he added a second finger, then a third, scissoring them until he felt that the shorter man was ready. When he pushed his throbbing member into the policeman, the other man hissed at the stinging pain while he was being breached and stretched. Lord Vetinari thrust in, his lips, which were much fuller and softer than people thought, parted to sing out a symphony of bliss. As he felt his climax drawing closer, he reached around the commander’s narrow hips and milked him to completion. Only then did he permit himself to let go, hips pistoning forward and then stuttering to a halt after he emptied himself with a gasp._

***

Angua entered Vimes’ office with the latest report files from the traffic division and stopped dead at the sight of Carrot. He stood by the desk with a pamphlet in his hand, and his face was a picture of confusion and horror: white under the freckles, except for two bright-red patches around his cheekbones. It reminded Angua of something, and she frowned and bit her lip, thus activating the tried-and-tested memory aid. Ah yes, of course. Bubbo the Clown, he painted his face just like this. Biting down on ill-advised laughter, Angua put the reports on the desk and gently took Carrot’s hand. “What happened?”

His glassy gaze sharpened and focused on her. “What did I just read?” he whispered.

Angua glanced down and began to laugh. Poor Carrot, this was worse than the incident with ‘The Perfumed Allotment, or, The Garden of Delights’.

“You’re in shock!” he said, protective instincts kicking in to replace embarrassment.

“I’m sorry, Carrot,” Angua choked out between very unladylike snorts. “But… your face…” He looked offended, and she managed to get a grip on herself. “Sorry,” she said again and stroked his forearm. “You weren’t supposed to ever find any of these.”

“Find… Angua!” he exclaimed. “Are you saying there are more?”

She nodded, pushing down on laughter that threatened to bubble up again.

“And you… know about them?”

“Obviously,” she said drily. “Don’t look so shocked. It’s just stories that people write and read for fun.”

“But it’s…” he said, blood rising to his face again until even the tips of his ears were bright red. “This is… disrespectful,” he whispered.

“No, it’s not. None of the people who write these stories disrespects the commander and Vetinari. Quite the contrary, they think they’re, well, _hot_.”

“Hot?” Carrot repeated, looking utterly petrified.

“Yes, Carrot. Hot. Like your face.”

“But they’re both… men,” Carrot was slowly working his way through the list of horrors.

“So are your mum and dad, to all intents and purposes.” Angua shrugged. “What? They’re both a ‘he’, aren’t they?”

“That’s different with dwarfs.”

“Well, with humans, the rules are rather more fluid. Such things, even though they’re not fully accepted, are no longer illegal nor vilified.” And as he persisted in looking horrified and unhappy, she added: “Carrot. Your girlfriend grows full body hair, jaws that can crush a man’s skull and extra nipples every month. Don’t you think that this is harmless in comparison?”

“That’s different,” Carrot resorted to the standby argument.

“How so?”

“You’re… you. But this…” he waved the pamphlet in the air to illustrate his point.

“Oh dear,” Angua sighed. “Look. It’s very simple. Some of the ladies in Ankh-Morpork enjoy reading about Mr Vimes and the Patrician committing what you would refer to as unnatural acts with each other. That’s all there is to it.”

“Ladies?!” Carrot groaned, and Angua had a dizzying sense of déjà-vu. Would she be condemned to repeating the same conversation again and again? Perhaps the whole thing had become too large to handle. Too many pamphlets were in circulation, too many people stumbled across them by accident.

“Ladies. This, too, was written by a lady, I’m prepared to bet.” She took it from his unresisting hand. “That’s odd. That’s an old one, what is that doing here? It was one of the first, came from Überwald. You can tell by the print, see? The Überwaldean ones use different printing presses than the ones in Ankh-Morpork.”

“You know a lot about it,” said Carrot, the copper, suspiciously.

“Yes. I do.” Angua skimmed the text, grinning. “I remember this one. It wasn’t very good, but there wasn’t much around back then and we didn’t know better. ‘Tongues battled for dominance’, good gods! The printing press changed everything.”

“What happened?” Despite himself, Carrot wished to get to the bottom[4] of it.

“Well. The first ones were distributed in Mrs Palm’s house of negotiable affections. And then somebody had the brilliant idea to disguise them as Omnian pamphlets and it kinda snowballed from there. How come you were reading this anyway?”

“I wanted to cheer up Constable Visit, he was feeling a bit down lately since he didn’t see much of Dorfl, and Reg was being difficult again,” Carrot said, crestfallen. “I thought a chat about one of his pamphlets would do the trick.”

“Not about _this_ pamphlet.”

“No.” Carrot frowned down at it as if the thought only just occurred to him. “What if he reads it?”

“That’s the beauty of it, Carrot. Visit is the one person who will never accidentally read any of those, because he thinks he knows them all by heart. Nor will Mr Vimes.”

“Mr Vimes must never know!” Carrot said fervently.

“He won’t. Not unless somebody tells him.”

Carrot shuddered. “I hate secrets,” he said. “But I am willing to make an exception.” He stared down at the piece of paper in his hand again, and the blush that had almost entirely drained began to creep up again. “You mentioned Mrs Palm…?”

* * *

 

[1] Foreign parts were notoriously seedy. One never knew what they got up to.

[2] Which turned out to be quite misleading in two or three major and a good dozen minor regards.

[3] Where they could acquire convenient inn-sewer-ants for the duration of their stay.

[4] As it were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scarlett Witch's poem is based on [The Hedgehog Song on L-Space](https://www.lspace.org/fandom/songs/hedgehog-song.html)


	3. Epiphany

**The Song of Men**

**by Lucinda**

_Full many a wonder is told us in stories old, of heroes worthy of praise, of hardships dire, of joy and feasting, of the fighting of bold warriors, of weeping and of wailing; now ye may hear wonders told. In Morpork there grew so noble a hero that in all the lands none bolder might there be. A chosen knight he became, proud warriors from out his lands served him with honour, until their end was come. In Ankh there grew the son of a noble lord, of a race high-born, in a mighty palace he lived and reigned. Strong and famous they later became, these valiant men._

_Dim was the twilight and high were their hearts when they held council together, but little of fair speech they spake thereby, because they were d’harak._

_“Bugger this for a lark,” quoth the gallant Commander. “I wanted to see that bastard strung up by the bura'zak-ka, dammit.”_

_The Patrician meanwhile was removing weaponry from within the folds of night-coloured garments._

_“Is this a dagger that I see before me?” spake the Commander and received a Look in response. ‘What are you, blind, you dolt?’ quoth the Look, speaking words that never sullied the Patrician’s noble mouth._

_Then the stalwart Commander put down his good shield. Well was he armed. The shield he bore along, his helmet bound upon his head, bright enough it was. Above his breastplate he bore a sword so broad that most fiercely it cut on either edge._

_“First time we fought together, eh?” the Commander proclaimed. “Never thought I’d live to see the day. Never thought I’d live through the day, hah!”_

_It dawned on the Commander that he was the only one who uttered words into the silent twilight air and a concerned gaze he turned at the pale and silent figure._

_“Ye gods! Is this blood?”_

_“Your grace…” the Patrician spake weakly unto him and fainted._

_“‘Mr Vimes’ will do.” The Commander was sat by the Patrician’s bedside, clasping white fingers in his hand, like he had done all those years afore when the tyrant was languishing amidst poisonous fumes._

_The Patrician smiled wanly and whispered: “At last.” Gently, long fingers moved against the Commander’s until they lay entwined. Many years had passed, much water had ~~flowed~~ ~~crawled~~ ~~sludged~~ flowed down the Ankh, and together they’d built a d’raghagh **[1]** where citizens lived in prosperity and peace. Two dezka-k'nikra **[2]** guarded and ruled the mine that was Ankh-Morpork, observing the rites of k’zakra to the extent that was possible for d’harak. Their fellowship was so worthy of praise that they were easily mighty lords over broad and princely lands, and they had the power and wielded it jointly. Together they had built, and tonight together they had destroyed, for blood had been spilled by the Patrician and the Commander’s foe lay slain. _

_Softly, the Commander lifted a hand armed with nought but a handkerchief adorned with embroidered swamp dragons and performed the ancient and sacred sickbed rite of the Mopping of Brows, thus proving that, though human, he knew of the secrets of h’ragna that bind kings and warriors together since the days of B'hrian Bloodaxe._

_“Mr Vimes,” the Patrician spake in a voice so low that the Commander had to lean in to catch the faint words ere they were torn asunder by wisps of air. “What can I give you in return? I have granted you all honours that Ankh-Morpork can grant. But there is one that doesn’t have anything to do with the city. It is one that one man can grant another, the most intimate one of all. If you wish, Mr Vimes, and I believe that you do, you can call me sya’a **[3]** forthwith.”_

_“Fucking hell!” brave Sir Sam ejaculated._

_Another smile flickered across the Patrician’s pale countenance. “Quite. Now kiss me.”_

***

Angua put the draft aside and stared wistfully out of the window, watching Mrs Cake dump a bucket of dirt from Mr Winkins’ coffin into the corner of the garden. Her daughter stood next to her, a shovel dangling loosely from her hands. Ludmilla’s nails were long again, Angua noticed. As though she’d felt Angua’s gaze on her, the other w- woman raised her head and their eyes met. Ludmilla inclined her head briefly in the familiar acknowledgement of sisterhood and turned back to her mother.

Angua looked back at the sheets covered with neat, angular handwriting. It had taken a while to convince… _Lucinda_ to contribute a story to the ever-growing anthology, but it had proved to be well worth the effort. Angua felt that it gave her a better insight into the way dwarfs felt about relationships. Carrot never said… Carrot was sweet and considerate, and he assumed that once they both knew which of them preferred which set of pronouns (which in their case hadn’t taken long to establish) that was all there was to it. Dwarf marriages were not about sex, not even about gender, but about partnerships among equals. She wondered how many of the dwarf couples out there had the same set of genitals. As long as “sya’a” stayed in the bedroom, Decency was being upheld and Values were being retained, which was all that mattered.

Across the room, Carrot’s lips were moving as he pored over a pamphlet, crouching awkwardly on Angua’s bed. The tips of his ears were bright red, and Angua stifled an unfortunate laugh that the persistent connotation with Bubbo the Clown threatened to tickle out of her throat. Dear sweet Carrot. Angua permitted her gaze to melt tenderly in this one unobserved moment. Ever since their return from Überwald, she felt that her trust in him had solidified into something unshakable that lay anchored at the bottom of her soul.

But there was still the matter of, well, not to put too fine a point on it, _sex_. Angua cursed herself in Überwaldian[4]. This was ridiculous, the bloody dwarfish reticence was catching. Here she was, a _werewolf_ , who had run naked through the woods with the clan of assorted relatives and hangers-on and who had joyously and filthily mate- _fucked_ Gavin like the beast she turned into, and suddenly she was too shy to even think the word ‘sex’ in the privacy of her own head? Human rules were bad enough – she vividly remembered her paranoia of being caught naked after she’d come to Ankh-Morpork – but dwarfish rules really took the rock cake.

Carrot was what one would probably refer to as a considerate lover. He was gentle and tender and he’d never do anything that she didn’t want. But it never occurred to him to imagine that she might want something else, something more than the very… marital form of intercourse. She loved sleeping with him, of course she did, but there was always something that held her back, because she must never, ever do anything that would induce him to think that one little word that would ruin everything: animal.

And so their sex was Decent with a capital D, and sometimes something inside Angua howled, longing for breathless animal rutting, all claws and teeth and ripped clothes and growls torn from deep within her throat as she writhed on the floor, clutching his head between her legs. It had never even occurred to him to go down on her. Carrot had Views. He had disapproved of ‘The Perfumed Allotment’, he had disapproved of Cheery’s coming-out, he disapproved of Mr Sonky and his products, and he never realised that it was due to that disapproval that she had made her own arrangements, with the skilful and discreet assistance of Mrs Palm. Carrot didn’t see the problem, but Angua wasn’t at all keen on dropping a litter of ginger pups.

But he was intrigued by Mrs Palm’s pamphlet. That was a good sign, they tended to be educational. Angua didn’t know if the woman had written it herself or if it had been authored by one of her many and resourceful daughters; she suspected the former, if only because like many of the working women in Ankh-Morpork Mrs Palm had special ties to the Patrician. Rumour had it they went way back.

***

**Taking Control**

**by Lavender Fingers**

_The slim black-clad figure slunk across the rooftops like a panther. With the same feline grace, it shimmied along the rain gutter and swung itself through an open window with a controlled heave of its stomach muscles. It rolled over the wooden boards, uncurling its body so that it rose gracefully to its feet in the far corner of the room. Right in front of a poised crossbow._

_The figure went very still. Yet there was no sense of fear; rather, the stillness spoke of self-command and a calm that is born out of the deep conviction that nothing bad will happen to it, certainly not death._

_It was obviously a very young person._

_“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t shoot you on the spot,” the man with the crossbow said._

_“You could,” the figure conceded in the light and posh voice of a true Assassin. “But think of the hassle. You’d have to get rid of my dead body, the Ankh is not exactly around the corner. Do you really wish to drag my gently cooling and stiffening carcass through the streets after curfew? And don’t forget the blood. It’s very difficult to get blood out of wooden boards as cracked as these.” He pointed down with one grey-gloved finger, but the other man’s gaze didn’t waver._

_“Well done!” The Assassin sounded impressed._

_“I have no wish to die,” the man said. “Who pays you?”_

_“No-one.”_

_“Don’t lie.” The crossbow shifted, bolt tip glinting menacingly at the Assassin’s chest._

_“I’m not lying. I’m not here to kill you.” The young voice behind the mask was suddenly warm with the warmth of a smile. “I’m here to meet you, face to face.”_

_“Why?”_

_A shrug. “You impressed me. Not many men have.”_

_The crossbow withdrew back into the shadow. “You saved my life,” the man said slowly. “You shot the man on the roof.”_

_Silence. The figure stood quite relaxed now, radiating the patience of a cat._

_“Show me your face,” the man said in a low voice._

_Long fingers tugged down the mask to reveal pale features, sapphire-blue eyes and the large nose of an unfledged adolescent. “Would you like me to remove anything else?” he said, a smile curling in the corners of his mouth at the sight of the other man’s expression. “Just tell me.”_

_“You’re just a kid.”_

_“I’m seventeen,” the Assassin said, offended. “Old enough-” For the first time, he hesitated, as though his juvenile bravado had deserted him at a crucial point._

_“Old enough for what?”_

_The man stood. He wasn’t taller than the Assassin, but his broad shoulders, his bulk, his age meant that he loomed over the youth who, for the first time that night, shrunk back._

_“You’re a dangerous man,” the boy said quietly, as if to himself._

_“Why are you here?”_

_“You intrigue me.” The Assassin looked the man in the eye, holding his gaze for a long and disconcerting moment. “Nobody knows who Sergeant Keel is. You showed up in the city and instantly took over. I saw you with your men. I saw you control them. What’s more, I saw you control yourself. You taught them, perhaps you could teach me. I’m always willing to learn from the best.”_

_“Teach you what?” The man let out a laugh that sounded more like a bark. “Control?”_

_“Yes!” The Assassin whispered some time later, “teach me control.” He lay on his side on the bed, his arms bound behind his head, with ropes looped between his wrists and ankles. His body was taut like a bow and his cock was hard and straight like an arrow about to go off. Keel, still mostly clothed and, with his eyepatch and grimy, unshaven look resembling the more disreputable kind of fortune hunter, knelt on the edge of the bed, scanning the pale, tense body with one narrowed eye._

_“Teach me control who?”_

_“Sir.” The Assassin licked his lips. “I’m ready, sir.”_

_A large, rough hand covered the boy’s hipbone, fingers digging into the small of his back, thumb buried in his pubic hair, almost but not quite scraping against the base of his cock. He tightened his grip until the Assassin’s lips parted around a silent gasp of pain and his spine arched into a deeper curve, hips jutting out and cock slapping against his stomach. The steely hand pulled him closer, dragging him by his hip, forcing his body into an impossible contortion. Suddenly the pressure lifted and the Assassin lay panting, strained shoulder and thigh muscles relaxing, stomach shuddering with harsh breaths. Keel passed the open palm of his hand over the boy’s flank, across the ridges of his ribs, felt the moist hair and the racing pulse in his armpit, and then round behind his back, where he tugged at the rope. Twanged like a bowstring, the Assassin groaned._

_“Oh, fuck,” he whispered softly._

_Keel raised his eyebrows. “Fuck?” His tone was mocking. “Is that what you want?”_

_The blue eyes refocused and, surprisingly, the Assassin appeared to consider the question seriously. “No,” he said at last. “That would be trivial. Sir.”_

_Keel laughed again, an honest expression of delight this time. “You might be right.” He let go of the rope and grabbed the boy’s arse instead, fondling it with a proprietorial air. “I could shove my dick in there, and there’s nothing you could do about it,” he said, watching the Assassin’s face. “I bet it’s very tight.”_

_“You could,” the Assassin admitted. “But you won’t.” A smile crawled onto his lips and reached his eyes. “You’re not that kind of man.”_

_“No. I’m not.” Keel was watching the Assassin’s face closely as he moved his hand lower, cupping his arse, slipping his fingers between his legs from behind, caressing his balls with his fingertips. The Assassin’s hips were jerking uncontrollably now, his cock hard enough to burst and desperate for friction. Keel smirked, leaned in and licked off the moisture that dripped from the tip. The Assassin moaned: a long, keening sound that he tried and failed to swallow._

_The hard hand lay around his thigh, yanking him forward, and he rolled over onto his stomach, bound arms and legs sticking up in the air, thighs open, back arched, arse exposed. He gasped and thrust his cock into the sheets bunched up beneath him, but the hands around his hips restrained him. “Control yourself,” Keel’s voice murmured filthily against his skin. The tip of the man’s tongue trailed down the groove of his spine, and then teeth, sharp and remorseless, drilled into the meat of his arse. The Assassin cried out. His shoulders were on fire, his dry throat and mouth burned, flames licked up from within his groin, and his insides were a boiling cauldron of pitch. But that was nothing compared to the scorching heat that erupted under the pressure of that mouth and those teeth. Keel rubbed his unshaven cheek against the inside of his thigh, his breath settling heavily on the tender skin there. This was torture, and there was no telling how long he was meant to endure it. He’d been there for hours, and just when he’d thought Keel was finished with him, it turned out the man had only just started._

_He tried to use his legs to immobilise Keel’s head, but when he flexed them, the ropes tightened, pulling at his arms, bending his body backwards, until he had to release the tension and lay there panting and weakened after the struggle. Helpless against the assault of teeth and tongue as they explored him from the nape of his neck to the back of his thighs._

_“Are you in pain?” Keel’s lips moved against the Assassin’s skin as he spoke._

_Yes! the boy thought. “No,” he said, fighting to get his breath under control._

_“Are you sure?” The man had propped himself on his elbow and leaned over to look the Assassin in the face. “There’s no shame in admitting it.”_

_“Yes.” To his surprise, the Assassin found that, like his clothes, his defences had been pretty much stripped away. “But it’s not a bad kind of pain,” he ventured, defiantly maintaining eye contact._

_“Hmm…” Keel stretched out alongside the boy, fumbling with a knot behind his back. “Let me loosen this a bit for you.”_

_The tension lifted, his stretched muscles relaxed, and the Assassin let out a sigh of relief. After being trussed up like a hog, even this little mercy felt like freedom. He filed that thought under ‘interesting’._

_He was being manhandled again, rolled on his side until he lay face to face with Keel. The man fingered the damp sheets inquisitively. “Did you come?”_

_“No.” The Assassin thrust out his hips, prodding Keel’s thigh with his hard cock. Keel shifted away with a grin._

_“Good boy!” That masterful hand alighted on his cheek and Keel kissed him. “Would you like to?”_

_The Assassin’s pulse fluttered as his heart leapt to his throat. “You first,” he said._

_Something flashed in the man’s eye and, for a moment, his control teetered. “All right,” he said hoarsely. He blinked and then trailed his gaze down the length of the Assassin’s body, as if considering the best approach. The Assassin watched him with a calculating look._

_“It’s a once in a lifetime chance,” he said lightly. “Use it wisely, sir.”_

_Keel’s gaze snapped back to his face. “You have a clever mouth.” He ran his thumb over the boy’s lower lip. “It’s tempting.” He kissed him. “But I don’t know if you ever done it before, and I’m not gonna ask-”_

_“Good.”_

_“And if you never done it before, you shouldn’t be tied up. Not your first time.” He smiled, almost tenderly, and it was odd to see that expression on the unshaven, grim face of a thug. “But it’d be a shame to untie you now and deprive myself from such a pretty sight.” The glint in his one eye rendered his face feral, but the hand that roamed the Assassin’s body was startlingly gentle. “Tell you what I do: I’m gonna roll you on your front.” He rose to his knees and unbuttoned his trousers to pull out his cock. The Assassin stared at it with cat-like attention, at the length and girth of it, the way the man held it in his fist. The broad thumb rubbing the glistening tip. Keel saw him look and grinned. “Like that, do you?” he purred. “Here, you can taste if you like.”_

_He lowered himself until his cock dangled above the Assassin’s mouth, heavy and massive and irresistible. The Assassin touched it with the tip of his tongue and, finding that he liked the taste of it, boldly licked across the tip. Keel’s hips jerked._

_The Assassin smirked. “Did you just groan, sir?”_

_“If only you knew how tempting-” the man began and then cleared his throat. “I’m gonna roll you on your front now. Then, I’m gonna release your legs, as much as I need to. Relax as much as you can. I’m not gonna fuck you.” He positioned himself behind the Assassin, who felt the rope loosen and his legs being spread to accommodate the kneeling man between them. A broad palm stroked up the back of his thigh. “I’m not gonna stick it in.”_

_“You said,” the Assassin said, voice muffled by the cushion._

_“Good. You’re listening.” The heat of the man’s body pressed down on the boy and he jolted as if struck by a bolt as the slick, hard length of Keel’s cock slipped into the crevice between his thighs and nestled against the swell of his arse._

_“Relax,” the man said again, stroking his flank and back. “You can lower your legs.”_

_The Assassin did so, trapping the man under the length of rope that tied his ankles together. Behind him, against his back, the man began to move. Damp cock slid against sweat-slick skin, and then Keel spat in his hand and made it slicker still, rubbing the length of his cock in the cleft of the Assassin’s arse. Groaning, shameless with desire, the boy slanted his hips, fucking himself against the hot flesh of Keel’s body and rutting into the mattress._

_“Don’t come.” The voice was a grunt against his ear. Keel slid his cock up and down between his arse cheeks, dipped it into the gap between his legs, teasing his balls with soft nudges of hot, wet flesh. “You wanted me to come first. Now wait.” The vice grip of his hands around the boy’s hips pinned him down, immobilising him so that his cock was trapped helplessly; throbbing, yet unable to find release. The Assassin bit into the pillow with a ferocious sob. A low hiss, a grunt, two, three hard thrusts of hips and cock, and Keel came in a hot gush over his arse and thighs._

_The Assassin groaned in sympathy and frustration. A moment later, cold air hit his skin as the weight on his back lifted, the familiar hands turned him over, and a mouth hot like the furnace of the gods enveloped his cock, eliciting a cry out of him. The mouth sucked him in and then stilled, lips closed tightly around his cock, tongue pressing against it. The Assassin shoved his hips against the heat of that mouth, but the pressure lifted, the heat withdrew, and Keel let go of him._

_“What was it you wanted?” the man growled huskily._

_The boy squeezed his eyes tightly shut, trembling with effort, until he felt he could trust his voice._

_“Learn control. Sir.”_

_“Do you think you have?”_

_He hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Yes.”_

_“Good.” A soft kiss brushed against his lips, and he tasted his own cock on another man’s mouth. “I’m gonna suck you now. You’re not to come until you counted to ten, understood?”_

_“Yes, sir.”_

_“Good. Well done.” Keel patted the boy’s hip. “You’re very talented. I’d have broken down the moment someone else took off my clothes, at your age. Most boys would.” He slithered down the Assassin’s body and breathed hotly against his cock. “Start counting,” he said and sucked him in, all the way to the hilt._

_“One,” the Assassin panted._

_An appreciative hum reverberated against his groin. The mouth pulled back, slowly, wetly, with the merest scraping of teeth, and then sank back down._

_“Two!” The Assassin’s hands convulsed behind his back. “Oh, gods!”_

_The mouth moved away just enough to say: “Keep going. You’re doing very well.”_

_“Three,” the boy moaned._

_After a pained ‘four’, Keel trapped the base of the Assassin’s cock in the tight ring of his fingers. He licked and nuzzled his balls for a moment, then returned to his cock, which gave a mighty throb in its desperation to empty itself._

_“Five,” the Assassin whispered. “I can’t-”_

_“Yes. You can. You’re doing so well, go on.” A finger trailed between his legs and pressed against a spot behind his balls. The mouth was gentler now, sliding rather than sucking, and the Assassin forced his eyes open to look down at the man who lay curled before him, with his mouth clamped to his groin._

_“Six,” he ground out through gritted teeth and watched the head move back, watched his cock slide out wetly, watched the tongue dart out and swirl around the tip. “That’s cheating,” he panted, grappling for control even as his balls tightened and his cock twitched and slammed against his own stomach. Keel glanced up at him and licked the underside, from the base to the tip. The Assassin hissed, jerking his hips. “Go on.”_

_“Such pluck,” Keel mocked. “What would you do if I left you like this?”_

_“Kill you next time you lay down to sleep.”_

_“How very Assassin of you,” Keel said. He twisted his neck, took the boy’s cock between his lips and then swallowed it greedily, choking slightly when the Assassin rammed it down his throat with a frantic shove of his hips._

_“Seven!”_

_The man slapped his arse, hard. He pulled back again and lapped at the underside of his cock with the flat of his tongue._

_“Eight.”_

_“This doesn’t count. Only the sucks count.” He raised his head. “Or do you want to start from zero?”_

_“Suck it, then!” The Assassin snarled, writhing in the drenched sheets. Sweat was running down his face, his neck, pearling on his stomach and groin, cooling his overheated skin so that he shook as though in fever._

_“Is this what control looks like?”_

_With an almighty effort, the Assassin stilled, panting like a man forced to swim the Ankh, wriggled his hips and, striking suddenly like a snake, thrust his cock into Keel’s mouth. “Eight,” he gasped triumphantly, even as Keel pulled back, coughing. The man rolled away and the tied-up boy let out a long, pained groan, but Keel was back the next moment, and something glinted in his hand._

_“A knife?” The Assassin whispered. “Are you changing the rules, sir?”_

_The man grinned and took him in his mouth again, holding him in place, suckling gently, waiting, waiting…_

_“Nine,” the boy said, body coiled, bracing itself._

_The mouth withdrew, the knife slashed through the air, cutting through a knot behind the Assassin’s back. The ropes fell away, blood rushed through his hands and feet, a torrent flooded to his groin and he was coming into the moist heat of Keel’s mouth, gasping and sobbing, his vision blackened by the intensity of his orgasm._

_“Ten,” he breathed and passed out._

***

On the bed, Carrot cleared his throat and stared at the sheet of paper in his hands. By the way his lips no longer moved Angua could tell that he’d finished reading this particular tale. She walked over, put her arms around his shoulders and kissed him on the top of the head.

“Well?” she asked with a beating heart.

“It’s,” he cleared his throat again. “It really is something else.”

“Which one did you read?” She craned her neck. “Ah, the one with Sergeant Keel, whoever he was.”

“Mr Vimes trained under him. I mean,” Carrot corrected himself hastily, “Sergeant Keel was sergeant when Mr Vimes first joined the Watch. I didn’t mean to imply-”

“Carrot,” Angua sighed. “I know what you mean.” She waited for another heartbeat. “Did you _like_ it?”

“I think I did,” he said carefully. Angua glanced down. It was hard to tell because of the way he was sitting, with papers strewn in his lap, but she was pretty sure that he had liked it. “I’m glad that the… Assassin wasn’t mentioned by name though.”

 _Yes, I thought you might_ , Angua thought.

“You like it,” Carrot said in a probing kind of voice.

Her breath hitched. “Yes.”

“Do you like to read it or do you like the things they’re doing?”

“Both, I guess. They kinda overlap.”

Carrot stirred in her arms, but didn’t pull back. She was sure that, like herself, he was glad that they didn’t see each other’s faces. Ye gods, that damned dwarfish reticence _was_ catching.

“This is not how dwarfs do it,” Carrot said, as if reading her thoughts.

“How do you _know_?” Angua was suddenly annoyed. She and Carrot, they were solid. The way they were together, the way she _wanted_ him, that was not a whim or a game. Why then was it so damn difficult to talk about it? She growled and poured her frustration into her next words. “You never had sex with a dwarf, did you? How would you know what it is they actually _do_?”

“No,” he said quietly. “I never had. You are the only person I ever slept with.”

“Oh.” Just like that, her anger evaporated. That was Carrot. He’d disarm you with a few honest words. “I didn’t mean to-” It was wordlessly understood that she was the experienced one in their relationship. Carrot knew that they’d been other men, but, being Carrot, he never mentioned them. They were in the past. This was the present.

“I know you didn’t mean to.” His arm wrapped around her waist and he pulled her closer, pressing his face into her chest. “Do you find it trivial?”

“No!” She didn’t understand at first, but then she remembered. ‘ _That would be trivial_ ,’ the Assassin had said and, for once, Carrot grasped a subtlety that wasn’t even there. It wasn’t trivial, far from it. Not the way her skin tingled whenever she touched him, or even just looked at him and heard his voice.

“But these other things, you like the sound of them.”

She took a deep breath. “Some of them, yes.”

“Not the knife. Or the ropes?”

“No. Not that.” She wasn’t actually averse to the ropes, per se, but they would keep. What else did the story include? Ah yes. Well, she very much liked the sound of that.

“The other stuff?”

“Yes,” Angua whispered and actually felt her knees go weak.

“All right then,” Carrot said and faced her, with the air of a man girding his loins. “It’s my day off.”

* * *

[1] City. Literally: Mine system with a shaft tower that withstands all winds.

[2] Kings. Literally: Senior Mine Engineers.

[3] The claim that dwarfs don’t have a female pronoun is not quite accurate. Sya’a can translate as “she” and as “you [person who identifies as female]”, and the word is used only in the privacy of a couple’s bedroom, or, in case of more progressive dwarfs, in the privacy of the most intimate family circle; among the most progressive Copperhead dwarfs it might occasionally be heard among betrothed, but speaking it in public is vulgar. The same word also translates to “wife”, “mother”, “sister”, “aunt”, “niece”, “female cousin once removed”, “faggoter”, “Giant Star Turtle egg”, and “a kick in the teeth by sapient pear-wood (don’t ask)”. With the exception of the last one, this saves a lot of confusion.

[4] A very good language for cursing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first story heavily plagiarises _Das Nibelungenlied_ , for reasons.


	4. Deliverance

A door opened. A door closed. A cold gust of wind rushed in, caused some disturbance in the paperwork on the duty sergeant’s desk and sent an icy trickle of dread down many a spine. Behind the desk, Sergeant Colon’s face was that of a man in the throes of a coronary. Across the room, Nobby Nobbs fainted.

“Good Afternoon, Your Lordship,” boomed the voice of Constable Dorfl, a lone rock of calm in the sea of mortal terror. “This Is A Great Honour. I Shall Inform The Commander Of Your Presence Directly.”

Framed by two sputtering sconces, Lord Vetinari stood very still, his expression hidden in the shadow of his high collar and behind a faint smile that gleamed like the edge of a dagger. He didn’t move, scanning the frozen scene before him with eyes that were as clear as the sky on a frosty winter’s day. When his travelling gaze encountered the bump that was the senseless figure of Corporal Nobbs, he spoke: “Oh dear. Your colleague appears to be poorly. Nothing serious, I trust?”

The scene thawed a fraction, not so much because of the words, but because of the sudden movement beneath the heavy folds of the Patrician’s cloak: a rustle, a snuffle, and then the grey and very elderly face of a small dog nosed its way into the light. It squinted at the watchmen, sniffed the air and gave a geriatric bark.

“And You Brought Your Little Doggie.” Dorfl stretched out a massive finger and tickled the dog’s chin. Wuffles growled and in the next moment aborted his attempt to bite the clay digit in confusion. “Would The Doggie Like Something To Eat?”

Sergeant Colon decided that it was time for him to close his mouth and to shoulder his responsibility, as behoved the superior officer on the scene.

“As you were, constable!” he barked. “His lordship’s, err, dog is not interested in, er…”

Lord Vetinari put him out of his misery. “Thank you, constable,” he said. “A bowl of water for Wuffles. And there’s no need to inform the commander of my presence. It is an… informal visit.”

Colon wished his body too had had the foresight to pass out. He briefly toyed with the idea of faking his own sudden death, but decided against it. His Lordship had been educated at the Assassins’ Guild, he knew all about vital signs and, more importantly, the lack thereof.

“Der you go, your Lordship, water for der little doggie.” Detritus had knuckled over, carrying a bucket and sloshing water all over the place, while the human and dwarf contingent of the Watch were yet to regain control over their various limbs and pulse rates. Colon wished Captain Carrot was there. Or, failing that, Sergeant Angua. Hah, yes! It’d serve her right if she had to deal with the full blow of the Patrician’s wrath. She was the one who’d known about… about… Even in the privacy of his mind, Colon could not bring himself to spell it out. His Lordship knew how to read people’s thoughts, everyone knew that, and he wasn’t gonna stick his neck out by thinking… things… that weren’t his fault anyway.

The troll took Wuffles off the Patrician, held him over the water bucket and watched with craggy incomprehension as the dog snorted and flailed.

Vetinari cleared his throat. “You’re not much of a dog person, are you, sergeant?”

“I used to have one of dem flies in amber when I was a pebble but dat’s not der same thing,” Detritus rumbled.

“No,” Vetinari agreed. “It’s not. Be so kind and put the dog on the floor, sergeant, before you drown him.”

Wuffles shook himself, licked his nose, and then began to limp around the room, sniffing legs. He gave the unconscious Nobby a wide berth, contorting his muzzle in an expression of utter incomprehension.

“I do not take kindly to any kind of… wanton cruelty towards Wuffles,” the Patrician said to no-one in particular.

“I didn’t mean to-” Detritus began, but Vetinari stopped him with a gesture, which the troll, usually unsubtle as a rock, instantly understood.

“If you could give me your attention, ladies and gentlemen and anyone in between or beyond these categories,” the Patrician spoke into the rapt and hungry silence. “My dog will be treated with nothing but respect. In deed _and_ in word.”

“Dis is understood-” Detritus was actually shuffling his feet, producing the effect of glaciers ploughing through a landscape.

“I do not mean you, sergeant,” Vetinari said, kindly. “This was a general remark and is to be understood as such.” And as the troll kept staring forlornly at the bucket as if contemplating drowning himself in it, he reached out and patted the rocky shoulder. “ _You_ did nothing wrong.”

“Dat’s good,” Detritus said. “Cos dey had told me my little fly in amber came from der sea and when I came to Ankh-Morpork I thought it’d like to go for a swim, and I took it down to der Ankh and put it on der crust, and it drowned.”

The silence that fell after the troll’s words was absolute. Even Lord Vetinari seemed thrown. He looked the troll up and down and up again and said. “As far as Wuffles is concerned, no harm has been done.” His gaze trailed over the more-or-less gleaming cohorts. “Not yet.” He flashed a quick smile that skipped over the faces of the multitude like a pebble over the surface of water and sank, causing ripples to spread. “I trust it will remain so.”

A mumbled chorus of variations on the theme of ‘yessir’ reverberated through the Watch house. Vetinari smiled again[1]. “Since the commander is not here, and since this is, as I said, an informal visit, there is no need for me to linger. Wuffles! Heel!” He leaned down, picked up the dog again, and pulled the fold of his cloak over him like a conjurer who, in defiance of custom, performs in front of an audience of rabbits.

The door opened. The door closed. The room breathed.

In his corner, the cataleptic corporal stirred.

“What was dat all about?” wondered a voice in the crowd. “Did someone kick der little doggie?”

“Oh gods,” Colon groaned in unspeakable agonies. He slumped over the desk and banged his forehead on the polished wood, three times. “ _Oh gods_!”

“I Believe His Lordship Was Referring To That Story Published In My Friend Washpot’s Pamphlets For What I Understand Is Your Amusement And My Edificati-”

Colon jolted upright as if stung by a battalion of wasps. “CONSTABLE DORFL!” he bellowed. “PATROL! NOW!”

Nobby sidled to the desk and lit a cigarette with shaking hands.

“Fred!” he wheezed. “He _knows_!”

***

**Vetinari’s Terrier**

**By Moon Daughter**

_Commander Vimes fingers the collar around his neck. It used to feel alien, but he’s grown used to it and wears it all the time. It gives him a sense of security and belonging. He no longer belongs to the place where he came from, and is an outsider in the society ~~of humans~~ of aristocrats. This collar, and all that it entails, gives him a purpose and shows him his place in life._

_Above him, the Patrician stands with a length of rope in his hand. “Stretch out your arms!” he commands._

_“Yes, sir!”_

_The Patrician takes his wrist and ties it to the bed post. “Well done,” he says and pats Vimes’ chest. It heaves with laboured breaths and the bonds that keep him in place anchor him and tell him that everything is all right, he is in good hands. But they are not necessary. His master can control him with his voice alone. Right now, he is telling him what to do, and Vimes obeys. He knows there will be a reward later._

_“Lift your hips,” the Patrician says, and Vimes arches his back, struggles against the ties to force his body into a bow. His spent cock lies heavy on his stomach. The Patrician looks at it. “Get hard for me.” And Vimes does. He’s empty, he’s been coming so hard; and yet he focuses on the hot feeling in his groin, growing hotter still under the Patrician’s gaze, and his cock twitches._

_The Patrician smirks. “Good boy,” he says and Vimes melts. This is bliss. His cock grows harder, and the voice of his master praises him for it. When it’s fully hard, the Patrician touches his cock, very gently, too gently. Vimes jerks his hips, humping his master’s hand, whining for more. The pressure around his cock tightens, one raised finger stops him, and he falls back onto the mattress, panting. Pulled apart by the ties, his legs tremble, and the Patrician runs his palm down his thigh, leaving his cock bereft and cold. Vimes doesn’t mind. He knows that the hand will return to bring pleasure and relief-_

Captain Carrot’s lips stopped moving. He laid the sheet aside and looked up into the face of Sergeant Colon, who trembled like a rotund aspen on the other side of the desk. Colon’s face was so purple he resembled a beetroot, whereas the bright red patches in Carrot’s cheek brought to mind his namesake. Skulking in Colon’s shadow, Nobby Nobbs was a sickly green; combined with his skinny frame, it made Angua think of a celery stick. So much for the vegetarian option.

She was leaning against the wall in the commander’s office; Colon had insiste- reques- begged for her presence during the interview with the captain, and she had to admit it was more entertaining that she’d expected.

“Er… this is… you mean he…,” probed Carrot.

“Well, sir… er, that is… he never, but. Er, but not, I mean… the commander. Um,” elaborated Colon.

“I should have… that is… He doesn’t…?” Carrot continued the inquiry.

“But, like… er, I mean, um. When, I mean _when_ … Librarian-poo,” pointed out Colon.

“!!!” expounded Nobby.

Angua took pity on them. “Don’t worry,” she said, and they all jumped. Three pairs of eyes turned to her. “Even if Mr Vimes finds out, his lordship will rein him in. As it were.”

Colon gave a strangled groan, Nobby had a coughing fit, and Carrot glared at her accusingly.

“This is not funny,” he said sternly. Suddenly, a new, horrifying thought occurred to him, Angua could read it in his face in large print. His lips moved, mouthing ‘Moon Daughter’. “Did… _you_ write this??”

Angua almost laughed, but she reined herself in. There was no-one there to do it for her. “No. I didn’t.” She sighed. “I’m not the only female werewolf in Ankh-Morpork, Carrot. And you shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Some of the authors remain shrouded in mystery. Look.” She stepped to the desk, shuffled through the pile of pamphlets and picked one out. “A lot of people think this must have been written by the duchess of Sto Helit, because it’s so _obvious_ , but she denies it, and I, for one, believe her.”

***

**A Dark Secret**

**By Raven’na Morticia d’Ark**

_My name is Raven’na Morticia d’Ark and I have a dark secret. I am not like the other girls!!! I dress in black like a witch, but I’m not a witch (witches are lame, they’re just old women who do a lot of tricks and stuff and bully people. I bully people too, but that’s because I’m cool and much smarter than them so it’s for their own good!). I live in Ankh-Morpork which is ruled by a Patrician, and he too is Dark and Mysterious just like me!!!! He dresses in black, and when I first came to the city he tried to find out my secret, but I didn’t tell him and he couldn’t make me b/c I have a strong mind and he can’t read it. He told me, that he couldn’t read my mind (duh! he’s not a vampire! many people think he is but I know better b/c I know how to find out things and solve mysteries!) and that he found me fascinating. We have a love-hate relationship because it’s hot and he says, that he didn’t want to but he desires me with all his urges, and we often “do it” in his office and on his desk, and stuff. Sometimes things fall down! His secretary picks them up later and puts them back on the desk. I think he secretly lusts after me too (all men do LOL b/c I’m hot, even though I’m not conventionally beautiful but, I have a pale face and purple eyes and my hair changes colour with my mood, and my breasts are too big but Havie (I call him Havie) likes to touch them). One day when he was making petting with me he said that we were married on the astral plane and, that he would always be my secret lover. It was so exciting!!!! We then “did it” and I had a climax._

It had been a long day. The interview had been exhausting, if only because the dialogue consisted mainly of ‘um’s and ‘er’s interspersed with an occasional scream of anguish, which made it very difficult to contribute any constructive criticism to the debate. Angua had therefore decided that she’d earned an evening off and was now sitting in Biers, cradling a pint of Winkles Old Peculiar and continuing this afternoon’s dialogue with a rather more extended and sophisticated vocabulary.

“Do you really think it’s not her?” Cheery asked, directing her solemn and slightly worried gaze at the solitary figure at the bar.

Angua shook her head. Susan Sto Helit, deploying whatever sixth, seventh or twenty-fifth sense she had, noticed that she was being watched, turned her head, spotted Angua and raised her gin and tonic in a salute, one… woman to another.

“It’s not her,” Angua said. “She’s a teacher. She wouldn’t abuse punctuation like that.”

“She might do it to lay a false trail,” Cheery said and gave a faint grin. “The peppermint bomb of venfiction[2].”

“She might,” Angua agreed. “And if that was anyone else, I’d certainly consider this possibility. But Miss Susan,” she shook her head. “She’s physically incapable of such barbarism. It would hurt her soul. It’s like werewolves and silver.”

Cheery nodded, acknowledging a good point well made. “Who, then?” she wondered, looking around Biers as if she expected to spot the author hunching over a table and scribbling furtively. “There’s no mention of Mr Vimes, whoever that person is, she’s a bit… single-minded about his lordship.”

Angua smiled, watching Cheery with a certain degree of pride. There she was, Ankh-Morpork’s first female dwarf, taking another step on her determined march towards sexual liberation as she casually discussed the subjective desirability of Lord Vetinari.

“I believe there are quite a few people out there who are _meaningful pause_ single-minded about his lordship.”

“I find it difficult to judge,” Cheery said. “I can tell that he and Mr Vimes have a, well, _bond_ , but as for the rest... I was under the impression that most people were scared of him, rather than wanting to… you know. You’re more human than I am: who would want to imagine themselves being so close to the Patrician?”

Angua’s smile deepened. Who indeed?

***

**Two Become One**

**By Ritz Swanky**

_There aren’t many people who are close to Lord Vetinari, but those who are know what it’s like to taste absolute power. You aren’t one of them yet, but one day you will. You must watch him from afar, watch the way he dresses, the way he moves, the way he speaks. One day, all this will be yours. When he summons you to an audience, you must resist the urge to go down on your knees and bend your head before him. He watches you with cool blue eyes and raises an eyebrow, and you resist the urge to kiss the hem of his robe. What you really want is touch his hand, align your palm against his, finger against finger, until they melt into each other. You are waiting for the day when you find him with his robe unbuttoned, so that you can see the clothes he wears underneath. His shirt will be very thin and you can see the shadow of dark hairs beneath the fabric. The fabric is very fine and expensive, and you make a mental note to buy the same for your own shirts. It will be almost like wearing a part of him around with you. Even when he looks through you as if you don’t exist, you will know that underneath you and he resemble each other. Your power is not the same as his, but one day it will be. One day, you will strip him off his vestments of office and don them yourself, while he watches you as you are watching him today. You will raise your eyebrow at him, and then, at last, you will get into him, and you will become one._

Cheery shuddered. “It might be because I’m a dwarf, but I feel dirty reading this,” she confessed.

“It’s not because you’re a dwarf,” Angua said. “Whoever ‘you’ is, they’re clearly a disturbed mind – the lack of exclamation marks notwithstanding.”

“That’s what I thought,” Cheery said. “But I don’t know much about human courtships. For all I know this might be normal wooing.”

“Only for individuals who conduct the best part of their courtship in soundproof basements.”

“Do you think his lordship _knows_?” Cheery whispered. “He knew about, um, the dog…”

“I think Vetinari always knows exactly as much as he needs to know,” Angua said cautiously. “And no, I don’t think we’re obliged to warn him.”

“I didn’t say-”

“I know you didn’t say,” Angua smiled to take the sting out of her words. “I could hear you not saying.”

“The first time I ever saw the Patrician in person, he was being poisoned. And he got hurt and framed only a few weeks ago. He does have enemies who want to harm him,” Cheery said. “Mr Vimes was very upset that his lordship didn’t let him spend the night,” she added after a moment of reflection.

Angua laughed. “What?”

“Yes, I never told you. When the poisoning plot was going on. I was new then and I’d been thrown into that whole mess. I had no frame of reference!” Cheery was starting to grin. “I didn’t realise I was in the middle of the perfect story setting.”

“In Vetinari’s bedroom?”

Cheery nodded, grinning from ear to ear behind her beard. “Mr Vimes insisted on staying to keep an eye on him. I don’t know where he planned to sleep. Maybe,” she giggled. “Maybe he wanted to share the bed. You know, like they do.”

“That’s… kinda sweet.”

“Mr Vimes cares a lot for his lordship, no matter how much he grumbles.”

“That’s humans for you.”

“Yes, I am certainly learning a lot about humans. This whole experience has been very educational.” She picked out the paper umbrella and took a sip of her drink. “Do you think this had better stop?”

“I don’t know why it should. It’s not like Vetinari complained.”

“He complained about the treatment of his dog.”

“I’m sure it shouldn’t be a problem to leave his dog out of any future stories.”

“Mr Vimes will find out,” Cheery said. “There’s no way he won’t. And then we all get in trouble.”

“Yes, everyone keeps saying that,” Angua said. “I never said anything to the guys, because it’s good fun to watch them go in a state of complete shock over a few stories, but think about it: if Mr Vimes ever read one of the pamphlets – what would he say? And to whom?”

“Hm,” Cheery considered this. “Good point. He might complain to-” She paused and shook her head. “No.”

“Complain to his lordship?” Angua grinned. “Can anyone seriously picture Mr Vimes take a handful of pamphlets to Lord Vetinari and tell him they’re all about the two of them fucking?”

“He probably wouldn’t phrase it like this.”

“He wouldn’t phrase it at all. He doesn’t have the vocabulary.”

“He can still shout at us.”

“Shout what? ‘Stop writing stories about me doing the nasty with the Patrician?’”

“If you put it like that…” Cheery sucked at her drink. “It’s hard to picture him doing that, yes.”

“Repression,” Angua shook her head. “Humans are governed by repression. Not as badly as dwarfs-” She glanced at Cheery, who shrugged and nodded her agreement. “But it’s bad enough.”

“It’s different for werewolves?”

“Very.”

They drank in silence. Over at the bar, Susan Sto Helit stared down Old Man Trouble.

“Not all humans are repressed,” Cheery said. “That new story this morning… I didn’t understand half the words! I’m still not sure I should thank you for explaining them.”

“Sometimes, all that repression backfires, with interesting and unexpected results.” A shadow passed over Angua’s face. “Oops,” she said quietly.

“What is it?”

“I, um, might just have left it on the table. And Carrot is coming over tonight, he might already be there. Mrs Cake always lets him in even when I’m not in, because he’s so _polite_.”

“Oops!” Cheery said and giggled.

“I’d better go…”

“Good luck!” Cheery said.

“You’re not leaving?”

“Nah!” Cheery said with the happy grin of the comfortably sloshed. “I’ll wait for the duchess to have another G&T and then try to find out if she can help us with our inquiries into Raven’na Morticia d’Ark.”

***

When Angua returned home, she found Carrot crouching in the only chair with the air of a puppy who got locked out in the rain.

“You’ve read it,” she said, resigned.

“I wasn’t prying,” he said. “It was lying right there, you didn’t even try to hide it.” Had it not been Carrot, Angua would have read a note of reproach into his words. Since it was Carrot, they were merely a statement of fact.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. You weren’t ready for fully-blown kink yet.”

The blush, which was never far these days, crept up his neck and exploded in his cheeks. “You know I don’t have a problem with the, er, ‘fully-blown’,” Carrot said.

Angua decided to approach it matter-of-factly. She sat down on the bed and faced him, hands folded in her lap. “What do you have a problem with?”

“I don’t understand most of it,” Carrot admitted. “But the bits I understand…” he gestured vaguely. “I don’t understand _why_.”

“Yes, _Sugar_ is always rather full-on.”

“What kind of woman would write this sort of thing?”

“A very respectable one, I imagine.”

“What?”

Angua waved her hand. “Nevermind. Tell me which words you didn’t understand and I’ll try my best to explain.”

Carrot stared intently at his own hand. “The f-word.”

“Which one? Fisting? Or felching?”

“Either, I guess.”

Angua gazed at him in silence. Then, she flopped back on the bed. “On second thought, you don’t want to know.”

“I do,” he said in a low voice. “If it makes you happy.”

“ _No_.” Angua stared at the ceiling. Carrot. He might have the body of a young god-cum-hero warrior, but he’d only just learned about _oral_ sex. She wasn’t going to put him off experimenting by explaining the things that lurked at the bottom[3] of the kink barrel. “None of these things is relevant to anything that we do.”

“All right,” Carrot said quietly.

“Carrot?”

“Yes?”

“Will you sit there all night?”

The chair creaked. Carrot stood and stepped over to the bed. He looked down at her and Angua’s bones turned to water.

“Where do you want me?” he asked.

***

Seated at his desk in the Oblong Office, the Patrician was dealing with his Überwald correspondence. The exchange with Lady Margolotta was most conducive to progress, and the writings that reached him from Pastor Oats’ mission had likewise proved immensely edifying. All in all, it had been a successful experiment. Lord Vetinari, never a man to reject effective tools, no matter how outlandish, picked up the latest addition to the growing collection of Omnian pamphlets, read a few lines, and smiled. It rather reminded him of sheet music. It was a shame that the commander didn’t have much taste for reading, let alone for, ah, comparative religion. As far as he understood from Lady Sybil, Vimes enjoyed the visceral – not to say physical – pleasures of music halls: the stomping and clapping, the laughter and the heckling; the whistling on the way home. Whereas he himself had always felt that squeezing a sublime composition through a saliva-filled tube or trapping it in a web of feline intestines rendered the whole experience painfully mundane, not to say grubby. There was really no need to bring bodily fluids into any of this: not when the neat black rows of symbols were all that it took to unlock hidden doors inside the mind.

 

***

[1] Well, his teeth were momentarily visible.

[2] A neologism derived from the word “ventilator”, because it was so hot that you had to fan yourself.

[3] As it were.


End file.
